I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it griev’d my heart to think What man has made of man.
Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trail’d its wreathes; And ’tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopp’d and play’d: Their thoughts I cannot measure, But the least motion which they made, It seem’d a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there.
If I these thoughts may not prevent, If such be of my creed the plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?